


Mend and Make Do

by brinnanza



Series: The More the Merrier [9]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s08e6 Period of Adjustment, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12052971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: A triptych of missing scenes for 8x6 "Period of Adjustment".





	Mend and Make Do

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's pretty clear exactly where these scenes fit into the episode, but let me know if you're confused. This fic, like all of my MASH fic, fits into the same general relationship timeline, which has Hawkeye and BJ acknowledging their feelings for each other somewhere around early season seven. Which I guess makes this an established relationship fic, but it's not really about that. (One of these days I'll actually write the establishing relationship fic, but until then, everything can be read as a stand alone).
> 
> Thanks again to Zeta for beta reading and cheerleading.

Shock keeps him down longer than the pain, but there's a pretty significant amount of that too, radiating out from where BJ’s fist has connected oh-so-gently with Hawkeye’s cheek. The evidence stings sharp under the hand he has clasped to his face, but Hawkeye is still having trouble connecting “BJ Hunnicutt” with “suckerpunch”. BJ hadn’t even hit _Charles_ , despite threatening to do so about twice a day, and Charles, at least, usually deserved it.

 _I guess the truth really does hurt_ , Hawkeye thinks dryly.

When the pounding in his head eases to a dull roar, he sits up gingerly. He knows what he’s going to see even before he makes himself look, and an ache creeps into his chest like his ribcage has just dropped a dress size.

The still -- his and _Trapper’s_ still -- is a gin-soaked litter of broken glass and bits of metal strewn across the tent, the skeleton frame listing dangerously on its bier.

 _Adrenaline_ , Hawkeye tells himself as he draws in a shaky breath and looks down to see his hands trembling faintly. _Fight or flight_ \-- he just hadn’t gotten the chance for either. He curls his hands into fists on his knees and takes a deep breath. God, he’d wanted a drink a minute ago, but now he thinks he needs one.

His heart is still beating too fast, but he makes himself get to his feet. Charles has a broom somewhere, he thinks, hidden away so Hawkeye can’t use it to play badminton with the rats. Maybe he can get an empty box from Supply, gather up all the pieces and give the still a proper burial -- there’s something almost blasphemous about chucking the remains in with uneaten World War Two surplus and rotting cabbage.

The tent door opens with a bang, and Hawkeye’s head jerks up at the sound. Charles stops in the doorway, his mouth hanging open, and stares at the mess. “What in heaven’s name,” he says with an edge that suggests shouting is imminent, “have you two raving, cretinous lunatics _done to my tent_?”

Hawkeye sinks back down onto his cot. “This was a solo act, actually,” he says.

Anger mixes with surprise on Charles’s face. “You mean --” He makes a little twirling , all-encompassing motion with one finger. “Hunnicutt did this?”

“This too,” Hawkeye says, gesturing to his face. It’s throbbing in time with his pulse, which is still jogging along slightly too fast, but it’s a welcome distraction from the jeep apparently parked on his chest.

Charles frowns. A smart comment is surely in the offing -- he never can read the room -- so Hawkeye heads it off. “You mind doing a little doctoring while you’re here?” Asking Charles of all people for help numbers just slightly under waxing nostalgic about Frank Burns and 48-hour OR shifts on the list of things Hawkeye actually wants to do, but the cloudy shaving mirror won’t let him get a good enough look at his battle wounds.

He braces for a scoff and an appeal to Charles’s very valuable time, but Charles leans in wordlessly, his mouth set in a firm line. He lays a finger under Hawkeye’s chin, his touch gentle and professional, and angles Hawkeye’s face so it falls into the light. “I don’t believe you’ll need stitches,” he says. His tone is carefully neutral. “But you’ll want to disinfect that.”

“Gee thanks, doc,” Hawkeye says, but his heart isn’t in it. “What would I do without that famous Winchester advice?” Charles rolls his eyes, and Hawkeye feels a little bit less off balance. Kindness from Charles usually takes a detour through pity, and Hawkeye’s got more than enough of his own.

Charles steps carefully over to his corner of the tent. He rummages in his footlocker for a moment and then comes back with a bottle of peroxide and a cotton swab. He motions for Hawkeye to move over on the cot.

“I knew you weren’t a natural blonde,” Hawkeye quips as Charles sits down beside him. Adrenaline still jangles painfully in his veins, but it’s dissipating.

Charles purses his lips in a way that usually means Hawkeye’s comments are beneath notice, but then he says, “I have better things to do than limp all the way to supply every time I am injured by the detritus you insist on cluttering every path with.” There’s not quite enough venom in it, but Hawkeye appreciates the attempt.

\--

He feels guilty as hell about it, but Hawkeye’s almost relieved when Baker comes to get him. The Anderson kid gives him something to focus on, a problem with an answer he might actually find.

Because what is he supposed to say to BJ anyway? Well, he knows what he’s _supposed_ to say -- that he understands, that he’s sorry BJ is going through this, that he forgives BJ for taking his anger out on Hawkeye’s face and his one constant wartime companion. But why the hell should he? Sure, Hawkeye didn’t always handle his own anger very well and maybe he leaned on BJ more than he should, but jesus, he’d never _hit him_. He’d never destroyed the one thing getting him through this hell, the only piece he has left of someone who couldn’t even --

How dare BJ act like he has a monopoly on suffering anyway? Maybe this place hadn’t taken his daughter’s first word or the scent of his wife’s perfume, but that didn’t mean it had taken nothing from him. He’d had a life before Korea, a house and a practice and a father he could call up any time the mood struck him. Every day Hawkeye spends in the operating room, elbow deep in some kid’s guts, he leaves pieces of himself on the table.

When BJ goes back to Mill Valley, he’ll still have his wife and his daughter. When Hawkeye goes home, he might have his house and his job and his father, but he’ll never get back all the things Korea took from him.

There’s not much he can do for Anderson except wait, so Hawkeye heads back to the Swamp. What’s left of the still remains uninterred, and the mess is something else he can actually fix.

Glass crunches under his boots and it sets his teeth on edge. He tries to tell himself that BJ hadn’t meant it, was just lashing out at whatever happened to be in the way, but Hawkeye’s made his own fair share of alcohol-assisted decisions. Sobriety would have talked him out of a lot of them, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t meant them.

He rights the chair BJ had thrown and picks up some of the larger pieces of the still. They’d built it out of nothing, him and Trapper, just spare parts and junk. A sole act of creation in the midst of so much destruction. Hawkeye’s sure he can scrounge up new parts, but there will always be something hollow about it.

A knock at the door interrupts his second try at tracking down the broom. “If you’re recruiting for the Korean boxing association, you won’t find any takers here,” he calls.

Margaret doesn’t comment on his attempt at a joke, not even a scowl. She just strides into the tent and looks at him evenly, her head tilted slightly in concern. “We found them,” she says. “They’re in Colonel Potter’s office.”

“Good,” Hawkeye says, but he doesn’t feel particularly relieved. “He could use a timeout in the principal’s office.”

Margaret touches his shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Hawkeye shakes his head. He’s not sure in what state he’s going to find BJ -- anything from “still swinging” to “unconscious” seems equally likely -- but he does know that Margaret’s particular brand of shouted lecture probably won’t help, no matter how well-intentioned. “Nah, I can handle it. How is he?”

“Drunk,” Margaret says, her nose wrinkling up distastefully. This is not exactly news to Hawkeye, considering BJ had been well past that particular milestone during their earlier main-à-tête. He makes a rolling motion with one hand, and Margaret says, “He and Klinger got kicked out of Rosie’s.”

Hawkeye lifts his eyebrows at that. Rosie won’t even kick out Marines unless there’s property damage -- the fighting must have shifted. He swallows, the knot in his stomach twisting painfully, and drops down onto his cot, leaning over to rummage underneath it. He retrieves his helmet from where it’s nestled in a pile of crumpled newspaper and old socks, and then sits up to blow the dust out of it. He settles it on his head and looks up at Margaret. “Well, dear,” he says grimly, “I’m off to the front lines.”

Margaret presses her lips together the way she does when she’s trying not to be amused and arches an eyebrow at him. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

He gives her a tight smile. “Can’t hurt.”

He’s not sure it’s a joke.

\--

BJ leads with an apology, which unknots some of the tension in Hawkeye’s chest, at least enough that he can sit down beside him. He tells BJ it’s alright, even though it isn’t really. Nothing about this place is alright, but he does understand. And he is sorry BJ is going through this. He hasn’t quite worked his way up to forgiveness yet, but BJ starts crying, and Hawkeye knows he’s going to.

Eventually, BJ’s sobs subside and his breaths even out. Hawkeye nudges him with his shoulder before he can fall asleep somewhere even less comfortable than army cots. “Come on, Sugar Ray,” he says, fondness creeping into his tone. “Time for bed.”

“Too far,” BJ mumbles. He shuffles closer to Hawkeye, nosing into the juncture between Hawkeye’s shoulder and his neck. “I’ll sleep here.”

The corner of Hawkeye’s mouth twitches up. This, at least, is familiar territory -- waking up a nearly-comatose BJ is something of a regular task. “Sorry Beej, Colonel Potter put the kibosh on our lock-in. Up you get.” He slips an arm around BJ’s back and hauls them both to their feet. He keeps a tight hold on BJ’s waist, and BJ leans into him, upright but probably not for long.

They shuffle back to the Swamp. It’s slow-going, and Hawkeye is developing a new appreciation for all the times BJ has helped him stagger back from Rosie’s after a bad day (or a good day, or a so-so day) had led to a marathon bender.

It’s late, and there’s no one else out on the compound but the night patrol. Hawkeye never minds an audience, prefers one most of the time, but he’s glad for BJ’s sake that no one’s around. The Corporal that’s on guard duty is a dusky skinned kid named Johansson who’s been here almost as long as Hawkeye has. He opens his mouth to ask for the password, but Hawkeye meets his eyes and he nods, turning away.

The front door of the Swamp is finally in sight when BJ comes to a sudden stop. Hawkeye grabs a fistful of BJ’s shirt to stop him from slithering to the ground, and BJ wraps his hand around Hawkeye’s wrist. He wobbles dangerously for a moment, but then he gets his feet under him.

Hawkeye nudges him forward again. “Come on, almost there.”

BJ turns slightly toward him, and Hawkeye readjusts his grasp. BJ’s eyes are lidded with exhaustion and the shadows the camp lights throw on his face make him look older. “Just a -- wait just a sec.”

Hawkeye has been this drunk and drunker on enough occasions to know what usually comes next. “You think you can make it to the bushes at least?” he says after a quick scan around. The latrine is definitely too far, but Charles will never let them hear the end of it if BJ gets sick right in front of the tent.

“No, no, it’s not that,” BJ says. The edges of the words blur together, and he struggles for a moment to meet Hawkeye’s gaze. “It’s just -- Aw, Hawk, I’m really sorry, you know?”

“I know,” Hawkeye says.

“I mean it,” BJ says. He squeezes Hawkeye’s wrist. “Not just about --” He pantomimes a swing with his free hand and nearly topples over but Hawkeye holds him steady. “You’re the only thing I got here, you know? I hate -- I hate every single thing except you.”

“I know,” Hawkeye says again, softly. “I know just how you feel.”

The Swamp is empty when they finally stagger into it -- Charles must have gone back to post-op. It’s probably to avoid the mess and any more yelling, but Hawkeye will take it as a kindness anyway. He ushers BJ down onto the closest bunk and reaches up to switch on the lamp. Yellow light reflects back off of the sea of broken glass, and there’s shrapnel in Hawkeye’s next breath.

With an effort, he turns away from the mess and back to BJ, who’s sitting on the edge of the cot and listing to one side. BJ’s in no condition to remember his boots if he has to get up in the middle of the night, so Hawkeye gives his shoulder a gentle nudge and he flops back onto the cot.

BJ levers himself up on one elbow. “This is your bed,” he says, confusion warring with exhaustion in his voice.

“Technically, it’s the army’s bed,” Hawkeye says, yanking the blanket out from under BJ. This is something else to focus on, and his breathing isn’t quite so sharp now. “Though we are, of course, using a very loose definition of ‘bed’ here.”

That seems to satisfy BJ. He settles back and Hawkeye shakes the blanket out over him. He leans down to take off BJ’s boots, dropping them at the foot of the bed. When he looks up again, BJ’s eyes are closed and the lines in his forehead have smoothed.

Hawkeye just watches him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his slightly parted lips. The morning will probably greet them too early and too hectic with a flood of casualties, and BJ will have to operate through one hell of a hangover (a just punishment, Hawkeye thinks, even though just being here is punishment enough for a lifetime of sins).

He douses the light and then turns toward BJ’s cot, finally allowing himself to notice the weariness that aches in his bones, but BJ grabs at his sleeve. “Don’t go,” BJ murmurs.

It’s not him BJ wants, Hawkeye knows. He’s just what’s here, what’s close enough. He’d known the score when they got into this thing, that he couldn’t compete with the photo next to BJ’s cot. Maybe that should make him turn away, but the next best thing is all anyone ever gets in this hellhole, and Hawkeye’s not stupid enough to hold out for something that’ll never come.

He shrugs out of his robe and hangs it up then sits down on the edge of the cot to untie his boots. BJ’s hand finds his belt loop in the dark, hooking his finger in it and holding on like Hawkeye might disappear as soon as he falls asleep.

“Hey, c’mon,” Hawkeye says gently, untangling BJ’s hand from his pants. He drops them on top of his boots. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

There’s barely enough room for one, let alone two, and the canvas groans under their combined weight, but BJ rolls onto his side and Hawkeye slides in behind him, BJ’s back to his chest. They’re pressed together from knees to shoulders, and for a moment, Hawkeye forgets what it’s like to be cold.

He closes his eyes and tips his head against the back of BJ’s neck, listening to BJ’s deep, even breaths in the dark. The war will end someday, Hawkeye knows. One way or another, they’ll all go home, but he doesn’t think any of them will be the same people who left.

BJ’s voice drifts over to him, words murmured on an exhale. “Hawk?”

“Yeah?” Hawkeye says against BJ’s skin.

“I’m sorry I broke your still,” BJ says. He’s more than half asleep, his words barely audible. “I know how much he meant to you.”

“We’ll build a new one,” Hawkeye says, and he’s surprised to find the idea settling easily into his chest, warm like the first sunny day after monsoon season.

“It won’t be the same,” BJ says.

No, Hawkeye thinks, no it won’t. But it’ll be the one that’s here.


End file.
